Somewhere

The vineyard rows

flicker past

the right side

back seat window

of the DeSoto.

Like the legs

of a giant

hundred-legged

spider running

beside the car.

The hypnotic dance

of fields and furrows

sends the boy

into a trance.

He no longer

feels the pinch

of his well-scuffed

Buster Brown shoes.

Hank Williams moans

from the front seat

about whippoorwills

too blue to fly.

He sticks his coke-sticky

hand out the window

catching the air

like a wing.

Now he flies

over the raisins

drying on long rolls

of paper between

the rows of vines.

Over the canals

of cool clear water,

the cotton and barns

and oaks,

the palms that edge

the numbered avenues,

the dark humps of lemon

and orange groves.

The sun-warmed scent

of alfalfa and the whiff

of dust trailing a tractor

fill his nose.

He circles with the vultures

over a white clapboard farmhouse

where a tabby-striped cat

lies in the shade of begonias

watching a rooster herd hens.

We’re here honey.

Where have you been?

Put on your shoes.